I, the optimist,
am hopelessly in love
with thinking that the past
is not indicative of the
future

I, the optimist,
cannot dream of a future
where I am no more
and my children are no more
and we,
as a species,
are no
more

I, the optimist,
look into the future
and past grimly
but even as the grime
grows thicker over
the things already
happened
and even more so
over the things yet to
come
and
I, the optimist,
do not doubt that they
will work out for the best
in the very, very
end